


We Live With No Lies

by MovesLikeBucky



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (kind of), Apologies to the desk, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale doesn't have an effort, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, F/M, Face-Sitting, Frottage, Let Nanny Ashteroth have Nice Things 2k20, She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Vaginal Fingering, and also to the chair, forgot to put that back at the beginning but HEY WHAT CAN U DO, the inherent tenderness and eroticism of removing your hereditary enemy's boots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:00:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25976350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky
Summary: “What?  Got somethin’ on my face?”“No, it’s just, well…” Aziraphale sets his glass down on the table and fidgets with his signet ring, “I wonder if you might allow me to assist you.”“What?”“With your boots, my dear,” Aziraphale is doing his level best to look anywhere but at Crowley’s face.  “I daresay you seem very exhausted, and I could quite easily help you with them.  If you’d like.”---What starts as a simple favor turns into so much more.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 54
Kudos: 289
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations





	We Live With No Lies

**Author's Note:**

> Hey wow I've been working on this one since APRIL omg that's a long time xD
> 
> It got left on the back burner for a while, but thanks to some encouragement from my dear friends Lur, Claire, and Elizabeth it is finally seeing the light of day!
> 
> Title is from "Earned It" by The Weeknd because that song is p much this fic xD

Crowley’s feet are absolutely killing her. 

Five hours spent with Warlock at the park, five hours the day before, and five hours the day before that. Being on holidays meant that Warlock needed distraction. As his nanny, she was required to provide that. Aziraphale had noticed her struggling and offered to come with them for today. They’d spent some time in Hyde Park and had gone for gelato. The novelty of having Brother Francis along when he usually didn’t join them had been a great source of entertainment for little Warlock, and his mom had been all too happy to take over when they returned. After all, a sleepy and exhausted Warlock wouldn’t be able to cause trouble. Crowley had heard about the terrible twos, nobody had ever warned her about the sinister sixes. Maybe if they had, she’d have rethought this whole damn thing. 

Aziraphale had invited her back to his quarters in the gardens for a bit of wine and a change of scenery. He always seemed to know exactly when Crowley needed a break, and she was beginning to think she’d bitten off more than she could chew with this whole blasted plan. The past year in employment with the Dowling’s had been quite stressful. 

As she steps over the threshold into the little garden house, she feels herself slip back from the prim, proper, and straight-laced Nanny Ashtoreth to her usual lanking and loping self. More of a change in posture than anything else really. She unbuttons her coat and deposits it on one of the hooks near the door along with her hat. Aziraphale, now finished being Brother Francis for the day, does a short wave of his hand. His face alters back to his corporation’s usual style; no more blotchy red complexion, fluffy sideburns, or buckteeth.

“Ah, much better,” Aziraphale sighs in a voice sounding much more like his own. Crowley watches as Aziraphale waves a hand and the floppy hat and smock dissolve into the ether, in their place his usual blue shirt and trousers (and accursed bow tie). Aziraphale cracks his neck and relaxes his shoulders. Crowley stares, as she always does. Yellow eyes hidden behind dark glasses.

Crowley crosses Aziraphale’s sitting room, past a large ornate desk, and over to a silk brocade chair, intending to rid herself of these uncomfortable shoes. They’re beautiful, with their high stiletto heels and stark black leather; with lovely red snake detailing on the sides climbing up her calves almost to her knees. All of that is great but they’re uncomfortable as all fuck.

She winces as she sits down, leaning back as far as she can in the chair and heaving a deep sigh. Aziraphale brings out a bottle of red with two glasses. He pops the cork and pours them each a glass, passing her one. He settles himself in the chair opposite her with a little bit of a wiggle.

“Are you quite alright, my dear? They’ve been working you dreadfully hard this week.”

“Blasted school holidays,” Crowley sighs, sinking lower into her chair, “Mrs. Dowling can’t be bothered to deal with the little satan-spawn so it falls to me.” Crowley takes a long swig of the wine, ignoring decorum entirely. Aziraphale is looking at her over his glass with a certain fondness. It’s been easier, this past year, to be a little more open with this...well...this whatever-it-is that’s hanging over their heads. Close quarters and all that. Even if Ashtoreth’s room is in the residence while Francis has the small cabin out here, there’s nothing to keep her from sneaking out at night for a glass of wine and good company.

Despite the ability to drop the persona, Crowley finds it a bit freeing to be presenting as a woman right now. It’s a bit softer than she’s used to, but for now, soft suits her. Even as the ruthless Nanny Ashtoreth, a certain degree of softness is required. It’s easier for her, in this form, to take care of the young antichrist. She could do like Aziraphale, wave a hand and be back in her other form, skin-tight trousers, black jacket and all — but she doesn’t much feel like it.

She sits up and groans, feeling for all the world like something is trying to pull her into the ground so she can become one with it, when she notices Aziraphale still staring.

“What? Got somethin’ on my face?”

“No, it’s just, well…” Aziraphale sets his glass down on the table and fidgets with his signet ring, “I wonder if you might allow me to assist you.”

“What?”

“With your boots, my dear,” Aziraphale is doing his level best to look anywhere but at Crowley’s face. “I daresay you seem very exhausted, and I could quite easily help you with them. If you’d like.”

It’s an odd request, one that she’s taken aback by. They don’t touch, for very deliberate reasons, and this almost feels like a request to touch her. Crowley swallows hard, thinking if there are some implications here she might have missed. “Hrm...yea...suppose...could be nice, not having to do it.”

“Ah, wonderful, thank you for trusting me, Crowley,” Aziraphale says with a smile. Crowley is in no way prepared for him to cross over and kneel at her feet; the wrongness of the situation is not lost on her.

Aziraphale gently lifts her right foot, balancing the heel on his knee. He looks up at her and she nods. Crowley hopes to Satan that Aziraphale can’t tell the blush spreading across her cheeks. The whole thing feels off, an angel kneeling to help a demon.

“Aziraphale…”

“None of that, my dear,” Aziraphale says softly, his thumb tracing along the edge of her boot where it sits just below her knee. His hands are calloused from centuries of taking care of other men’s stories. His thumb catches on her stockings, like little sparks lighting up something deep inside of her that should have been snuffed out six thousand years ago.

Aziraphale unties the laces of her right boot, as gently as he can. Crowley has never given much thought to things like this, to being taken care of in this way. But as Aziraphale kneels in front of her, book-binders hands working the laces out slowly, caressing her calf through the leather, she thinks she might get used to it, given half the chance.

He pulls the laces through the first eyelets, then the second, then the third, all the way down. Crowley relaxes, feeling the vice grip of the boot on her leg loosen. Aziraphale slides it off of her foot slowly and carefully before moving to the other. She’s on an edge she can’t quite describe, having his hands on her like this. He gently, ever so gently, lifts her other foot to balance and starts on the second one.

“Aziraphale?”

“Shh...my dear,” Aziraphale says and there is a crack to his voice that Crowley can’t place. “You’ve done so much for me over the years, just let me do something for you.”

“You don’t need to repay me, you know,” Crowley says, looking towards the ceiling, focusing her eyes on the rough-hewn beams and the minute cracks in the plaster as Aziraphale works the laces out of the second boot. She can’t look at him like this; like he’s serving her. It’s all wrong, it should always be the other way around. Aziraphale is the altar on which she should be throwing herself; he shouldn’t be in front of her in supplication.

The second boot goes much as the first, the gentle pressure of his hands sending sparks down her spine. They don’t touch like this, they never touch like this. This thing that they dance around, that they orbit closer to every day, it’s not a thing they get to have.

Aziraphale is slow and careful, because of course he is. Cradles her calf like it’s a precious thing as he works the laces. She closes her eyes, tries to figure out where this happened. Catalogues the last five years. The planning, the dinners, the subterfuge of it. The glances across the table in the candlelight. The hushed words on the tops of buses where no one else could hear. The brush of fingers as they passed a wine bottle between them in the backroom of the shop. The lazy days spent wandering the British Museum, plotting quietly, making their plans.

Crowley opens her eyes when she feels the boot slide off of her foot and free, marking the end of this, well, whatever this is. She wants to cry, both in loss and relief. The loss of Aziraphale’s hands on her and the relief of no longer needing to wonder. But Aziraphale’s hands are still on her feet, rubbing small circles into the arches. A firm and gentle touch that works out the pain, makes the day melt away.

“Is this alright, Crowley? You just seem so exhausted…” 

Crowley doesn’t have words, too busy melting into a puddle, so she just nods. Aziraphale’s calloused hands work the knots out of her feet, first one and then the other. Sturdy thumbs digging into the arch, a soft touch running along the bridge. It’s too much, really, but at least Aziraphale isn’t washing her feet. That would be entirely too much.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale asks, breaking her thoughts, “Can I…that is to say… may I help you with your stockings, dear?” 

No, actually, _this_ is entirely too much.

Aziraphale’s voice is shaky, heavy with the weight of the situation. But his hand is steady where it rests on her ankle, his eyes are firm where they hold Crowley in his gaze. There’s a look on his face, a look that reminds Crowley of Shakespeare or of crepes. A pleading thing, and Crowley has always been powerless against what Aziraphale wants.

“S…sure, angel, whatever you want,” Crowley whispers out on a breath, hoping it doesn’t sound too desperate. Hoping it doesn’t give too much away. _Whatever you want, reach into the heart of me, what little is left. Rip it out and do with it as you will, it’s been yours anyway. All you have to do is take it._

Aziraphale’s hand runs gently up the length of her calf. He’s careful, controlled. This touch is one saved for delicate things. For antique snuffboxes and illuminated manuscripts. For fragile things that could crumble at a touch. Crowley is crumbling already.

His hand edges under the hem of her skirt, stops just above her knee where the silver clasp of her satin garter belt attaches to the sheer stocking. He runs a thumb over the metal, brushing her bare skin in the process. It’s like a firebrand, the heat in those fingers. She stops breathing entirely.

He flicks the snap open before carefully rolling the stocking down her leg. Meticulous and slow, agonizing in his pace. Crowley has a thought, a flash in the pan before it’s gone, that maybe he wants this to last as long as it can. This thought won’t do, of course. They can’t act on these things.

Aziraphale rolls the stocking slowly as he goes, careful not to catch it or cause any runs before slipping it off of her toes. Crowley wriggles them in the cool air, feeling better for the loss of compression. She wonders idly why women’s undergarments always seem to be about squeezing as hard as they can.

The second stocking soon joins the first, Crowley’s knuckles turning white where they grip the arms of the chair. Aziraphale carefully folds her stockings, setting them to the side with her boots. Her feet rest on his thighs, warm and soft. He’s staring up at her with an expression she cannot place as he runs a finger along her now bare calf, almost to her knee then back again.

“Aziraphale…” How Crowley manages to choke out his name around the lump in her throat is lost on her. Maybe the stakes involved, maybe the proximity. 

“Yes, my dearest?” Aziraphale’s voice is hazy as he says this new endearment. Crowley feels something threatening to break deep down inside of her. Something that has been walled up for so very, very long. Aziraphale is on his knees, staring up at her with those color-wheel eyes, sparkling with starlight. They could rival anything Crowley ever put in the sky. 

Crowley grasps for something, anything, to give Aziraphale a way out of whatever is happening. Aziraphale never lets them get close, always the cautious one. Always keeping her at arm’s length. It’s been centuries now, there’s no way that Aziraphale hasn’t noticed the bleeding-heart miasma of love that seeps through Crowley’s skin. That drips from her words, that shines in her eyes. Only an idiot would’ve missed it, and Aziraphale might be a lot of things, but he isn’t an idiot.

“Angel,” Crowley swallows thickly, feeling like air is a luxury that she’s being denied at the moment. “What...what about the wine?”

“What about the wine?” Aziraphale asks, his touch more insistent now, running his palm over the smooth skin of her leg. She finds herself leaning towards him despite herself. How long has she wanted? Waited? Yearned for just this? For soft words and tender caresses from the only being that has ever mattered.

“It’s...” Crowley’s voice is barely a whisper now, afraid to break the spell that hangs over this room. “It’sss already been opened, I’d hate for it to go sssour.” She manages to force the words out but is unable to stop the sibilant hiss that attaches itself to them.

Aziraphale’s expression shifts, and she knows the spell has been broken. He has a way out and he’ll take it. A coin flip, a ride home, a thermos of holy water. So many things in their long history, every single one with a way out made especially for Aziraphale, Crowley always ensured that. 

Aziraphale rises up, just enough to be closer to eye level with her, and Crowley steels herself for the rejection. She always knows it’s coming, it hurts every time. She is in no way prepared for what Aziraphale says next.

“Darling,” Aziraphale says and it hits through her heart like a bolt of lightning. He cups her cheek; touch light and gentle. “Sod the fucking wine.”

Their lips crash together and with that, the walls are broken down. Walls that had been constructed to keep them safe from everything in creation that would not understand. It’s so clear now, despite it all. They’ve needed each other, they’ve only needed each other. Crowley has not been able to sense love for a long time, but the love pressing in on her from Aziraphale is enough to knock her breathless. She winds her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. His hands frame her face, fingers pushing back into her hair, thumbs caressing her temples.

She sighs and he takes it as an invitation, licking into her mouth like he’s committing it to memory. Like this is all he’s wanted. Waited for. Yearned for. They break apart and he rests his forehead against hers.

“I…” he starts, a hint of regret slipping into his tone, she kisses him again. She can’t let him take it back, _won’t_ let him take it back. Crowley’s had a taste now and she can never go back. If Aziraphale’s kiss is the fruit of knowledge, she is more than willing to leave the garden behind.

Soft hands on her shoulders push her back, “Crowley, please, stop for a second.” 

“Don’t say you regret it.” Crowley feels decidedly un-demonlike tears forming in her eyes.

“Never, I never could,” Aziraphale says, thumbs tracing the tear tracks on her cheeks, “I could never regret that. I just...”

“Aziraphale-”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale cuts her off, still cradling her face in his hands. “You have done so much for me in our long lives. And I have wasted so much time. So much time pretending not to know you, pretending we weren’t friends, pretending that I didn’t need you.”

Aziraphale leans in and kisses her again, and it feels like seeing the sunshine after the darkest and dreariest of winters. “You don’t have to pay me back, angel,” Crowley says, breathless, when they part. “I’d do it all again, wouldn’t change a thing.” Aziraphale just kisses her again, one hand wandering to rest on the back of her head.

Aziraphale gently and with care removes a pin from Crowley’s hair. He’s met with no protest, so he continues, one by one. “I know that dearest, believe me, I do.” Another and another, Crowley can feel the tight and intricate hairstyle she worked up this morning falling loose beneath his fingers. “Just once, just for tonight, at least - let me take care of you. You always take care of me, and, if these few years are all we have left, I’d rather spend them together.”

He removes the last of the pins, and Crowley’s hair falls free. “You’re always so lovely, Crowley, no matter what form you take.” Aziraphale runs his fingers lightly through her tresses. Crowley can hardly breathe. Aziraphale’s hands are in her hair and she can hardly breathe. Aziraphale’s hands, hands that spend their days gluing and stitching at parchment. That worry at his ring or stay clasped so tightly behind his back. Hands that Crowley has never been allowed to touch. Those hands now roam freely through her hair and the sensation feels like floating.

Aziraphale touches her gently, like she’s something precious and meant to be treasured. Crowley can’t suppress the keening noise that escapes her when he presses his lips to hers again, tender but insistent. It feels like a confession, like a million unspoken words being pressed straight into her soul. Aziraphale buries his hands in her hair possessively. Like if he lets go she’ll disappear. Aziraphale tilts her head back to deepen the kiss. 

She feels one strong arm wrap around her back, Aziraphale’s other hand coming to rest on the nape of her neck, thumb tracing small circles at the base of her skull. She gives back in kind, relishing the taste of his kiss - a hint of pistachio gelato still lingering there. Nutty and sweet, mingling with the smallest bitter hint of red wine. He pulls her close, still kneeling in front of her, until she’s balanced on the edge of the chair.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says breathlessly as Aziraphale releases her mouth to focus on trailing deep bruising kisses down the long line of her neck. So many words; none of them coming to the surface. She’s never been good with words like Aziraphale is, more about action than anything else.

He nuzzles her chest, pushing aside the soft cotton of her blouse, trailing nips and kisses along her sharp collarbones. It’s too much and not enough all at the same time. Her hands sink into his paper-white curls, nails scratching against his scalp as he moans into her skin. It’s not enough. Crowley wants more. She wants _him_. And really, that’s all she’s ever wanted. 

Aziraphale’s hands are splayed against her back and on her neck, holding her like he never wants to let go. In spite of herself, she ruts against the edge of the chair, seeking out a friction that she knows won’t be there. The love and lust mingling in the air between them is too much. “Angel,” she whimpers, pleading for something but not knowing how to say. 

The hand on her neck disappears, and Crowley feels adrift without that grounding touch. She doesn’t get to ruminate on this long. She feels a warm hand on her knee, slowly sliding up her thigh, running along the straps from her garter belt. Aziraphale looks up at her; his breath is heavy and his lips are kiss-bruised. A smile plays at his lips and Crowley’s heart is full to bursting.

“Crowley, my darling,” he asks in a low, husky whisper. “May I?”

Her words fail her again. Doesn’t he know? Aziraphale could ask her to move mountains, and she would. Could ask her to walk through the fires of hell, and she would. Anything for him, always, anything in all of Her creation. She nods and Aziraphale leans in to kiss her again. Gentle and soft at first, slowly becoming more insistent the further his hand slides up her thigh. She feels his fingers run along the edge of the black lace of her knickers, and her breath stutters. 

“Can I touch you, darling?” Aziraphale breathes against her lips, barely breaking contact. His hand is stilled, going no further, waiting for confirmation. Crowley stares into his eyes, so full of want and of hope. He really wants this. He wants _her_. 

“Yes,” she says like a prayer, “angel, I’ve wanted you to touch me forever.”

Aziraphale pulls Crowley impossibly closer, holding her steady with the hand on her back, kissing her deeply. Their bodies are flush together; her at the edge of the chair, him kneeling between her thighs. His hand moves slowly over the satin of her underwear, edging closer to where she wants it.

Crowley gasps as Aziraphale trails kisses along her jaw before taking her earlobe between his teeth. “Have you any idea,” he growls low into her ear, voice dripping with want and desire and a darkness she’s never heard there before. It sends a shockwave straight to her core. “Have you any idea, how long I’ve wanted to touch you Crowley.”

At this last word Aziraphale strokes a featherlight touch across the crotch of her panties. Crowley’s already wet and sensitive and this tease of contact makes her breath hitch. His motions become more insistent, the friction maddening despite the separation of fabric. 

Crowley has touched herself before - more curiosity than anything else - and in a myriad of configurations. Aziraphale touching her is so much different; the ache of longing that she’s had to ignore for so long only serves to heighten the sensations. She rocks into his hand, seeking that friction, moaning his name out loud. Aziraphale sucks a bruise into her collarbone and Crowley mentally files away a miracle for later. She’s keeping that on her skin as long as she can, to the end of the earth if she has to. He trails his kisses lower, pausing in between to flick open the buttons of her blouse with his teeth.

Aziraphale is slow and methodical, kissing every inch of skin he uncovers. Crowley’s breath is heavy and staggered; sharp gasps or little moans with every kiss. Aziraphale pauses briefly to nip at the sensitive skin of her breasts, along the line of the red satin bra she wears. She clutches at his hair, soft and downy beneath her fingers, just as she always thought it would be. How long has she ached to know this; the exact feel of Aziraphale’s hair or his skin or his lips? 

Crowley can feel the wet spot forming on her underwear; soaking through the satin, leaving the scent of her heavy in the air. Aziraphale’s fingers trace back and forth through it, spreading the wetness further, making her breath hitch with every movement. Each kiss he presses to her skin is suffused with love; she feels it seeping through her, marking his name onto what’s left of her soul. Every tantalizing stroke of his fingers takes her higher, makes her keen. She wants more, she wants _him._ All of him that he’s willing to give her.

Aziraphale’s hand moves slowly from her back around to her stomach. He ghosts his hand over her skin, up her chest under the edge of her blouse. He runs his thumb lightly over a collarbone with a tenderness like she’s never known. Gentle touches aren’t the way of things in hell.

His hand ventures further to the back of her neck and he pulls her back into a kiss. His thumb brushes lightly across her jawline as his fingers press harder against the core of her. Crowley moans as she sinks her teeth into Aziraphale’s lip, pulling back from him slowly.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale says in a daze. His expression is hazy, blissful. It reminds Crowley of how he looks after a particularly good slice of devil’s food cake. It’s too much of a sight to behold; she lurches forward to kiss him again, relishing the laugh that escapes him as she trails kisses across his cheeks and his nose.

She pulls back again, stroking a hand through the hair at his temple, smiling despite herself. His face is marked in rose blush splotches from her lipstick and he’s looking at her as if he wants to devour her. He’s still pressing insistently with two fingers, stroking and pressing and being an absolute _bastard_ because it’s not quite where she needs it for the release she’s craving.

“Angel, please,” she begs as she nuzzles her nose against his. “Anything you want from me, Aziraphale, please, I need you.”

“And I you, my dear, for so very long now,” Aziraphale punctuates his words with kisses and licks along her neck. She could get drunk on this, she thinks. No more wine, no more single-malts, fuck the lot of it. All she needs is Aziraphale’s lips on her skin.

“Please, Aziraphale, I want — I need —“

“Heaven above, Crowley,” Aziraphale groans into her neck, beard-start rasping against her skin, pinpricks of pain, beautiful in their torture. “I want to taste you, I want to savor you, can I?”

At this he sinks his teeth into her neck again, a matching mark for the one on the other side. She curls into him, grinds against his fingers, “Yes, please, Satan’s sake, yes!” She breathes the words into his ear, gasping for air and drowning at sea. His fingers press against her more intently, finally brushing against her clit through the fine fabric, making her see stars.

All at once the fingers are gone, and she whines audibly as he drops soft kisses over this fresh bruise. She’ll keep it, too. Admire it in the mirror. Maybe wear more plunging necklines, let the cooks and the maids see. Wear it like a badge of honor, the teeth marks of the divine. Fuck the stares and fuck the rumors, the drivel of a workplace like this.

Aziraphale’s hands skim the edge of her pencil skirt. He pushes it up slowly, searching her face, looking for a sign that this is unwelcome. In answer, she spreads her legs out wider, a little further with every inch of wool that slides up her thighs, satin lining smooth against her skin. Aziraphale trails kisses and nips in their wake, looking up at her through storm gray eyes.

“You’re a vision, my dear,” Aziraphale says between kisses. Crowley wonders what a sight she must be right now, from his angle. Chest heaving with every breath, face red and lips kiss-swollen. Hair falling down around her shoulders. She doesn’t get long to worry about appearances, as Aziraphale kisses the junction between her hip and her thigh, nuzzling his nose there before tracing along the lace edge of her panties. “These are quite lovely, darling, and the color suits you well.”

“Hrnn…gk…” Crowley’s tongue feels heavy in her mouth, unable to form actual words. Her entire being condensed and contracted down to where Aziraphale’s nose touches her through a thin layer of red satin.

Aziraphale traces her with his finger, knickers still separating them, a small and thoughtful smile on his face. “All for you, angel, this is what you do to me,” she says a bit too quickly. It’s a little too honest, a little too close to home; more than a little too desperate. “This is what you always do to me.”

Aziraphale smiles up at her, bright and open. It’s not a smile Crowley sees often, it’s warm and inviting, like a fire in a hearth on a cold winter day. It’s real and genuine, and he’s smiling like that because of _Crowley_. “Oh, dearheart, if you knew what you do to me…” He trails off as he grips her hips, thumbs circling the smooth red satin on her pelvis. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and he leans in. “You beautiful creature, the things you do to me.”

His tongue drags across the crotch of Crowley’s knickers as she moans, trying to press forward and chase that pressure. Aziraphale is insistent but not rough, and his hands tighten on her hips to keep her still. The slide of satin against her labia, smooth against her sensitive skin is maddening on its own; but that alongside the new wetness mingling with her own makes her toes curl. It’s debauched and depraved, Aziraphale kneeling here, his mouth on her, licking at her slowly, moaning like he does over the best of delicacies.

The slowness of the build, what this has been working towards, pushes her over the edge as he laps at her through the underwear. His saliva mingles with her own wetness and she knows these panties are ruined, but can’t bring herself to care. She digs her hand into his curls and pulls, relishes the keening sound it draws out of him as he pulls her closer by the hips, increases the pressure and moans into her.

The vibration of his voice pushes her over, clenching around nothing, gripping his hair like a lifeline and shouting his name as he works her through it. She starts to come back down, breathing heavy as he looks up at her. His chin is wet with something — a little of the both of them, she thinks — and the sight of it has her wanting him all over again. Aziraphale loosens his grip on her hips, wipes his mouth against her thigh, beard-start scratching against her soft skin.

“Was… Was that good for you, then? Did I do that right?” He asks behind a shy smile, because of course he would be shy _now_ and it breaks something inside of her, some inhibition she was trying to keep hold of. Crowley slides off the chair, sinking to her knees in front of him, crashing their lips together, tasting herself on his tongue. Pushing him backwards until he’s lying on the floor and she’s slotting their legs together. One strong arm wraps around her waist, the other buries itself in her hair. It’s possessive and wanting, this hold on her. It says one thing, loud and clear: _Mine_.

Her hands come up to tangle in his hair, to control his movement, to keep his face right where she wants it, so she can kiss him as she wants to. So she can pour all of the passion and want and desire that’s been building up in her heart for the past six thousand years into it. So she can get drunk on this kiss, while they have this moment in time.

Aziraphale’s lips start to wander, to the corner of her mouth, her cheek, down the long line of her neck, working their way lower to nip at her breasts. She leans back up, grinding down onto his thigh as his hands skim up her chest, pushing the blouse off her shoulders. Aziraphale trails kisses along her collarbone, runs his tongue along the divot of it, makes her shiver.

“Angel, please, what do you want? What can I do? Let me be good to you,” Crowley stammers as she holds Aziraphale’s head steady against her chest, letting him lavish his affections on her there.

“Nothing, darling,” he moans low against her skin, causing her hips to roll down into him again, “I just want to take care of you now, there will be time for me another day.”

The words strike her deep, make her tighten her grip and drag him back up into another searing kiss. Another day. This will happen again, and not only that, Aziraphale already has ideas. She moans against his mouth, trying very hard to keep from forming the words ‘I love you’. If she starts saying it, she knows she’ll never stop. She breaks the kiss, looks into his eyes, willing herself to slow down just a little bit.

“Please, Aziraphale, I want to, let me do something—“

“You’re doing plenty as you are, Crowley,” Aziraphale says as he kisses the tip of her nose. It shouldn’t be adorable, it shouldn’t be endearing, and it definitely shouldn’t be enough to send sparks flying inside of her. The simplicity of it, the casualness of it, something she’s wanted. Her fantasies haven’t always been heavy with the salt of skin and the slide of lips, sometimes they’ve been simple. A cup of coffee in the morning, holding hands at the Ritz, learning to make crepes just to make her angel happy. These have permeated her being just as much. 

“Crowley, this is for you today, I don’t want for anything more than to give you pleasure,” Aziraphale strokes a reverent thumb across her cheek, “All I want right now, this moment, is to give you the pleasure and love that you deserve. If you want me to… well… _manifest_ something I will, but I’m perfectly content to take my pleasure in your pleasure, dear.”

A low whine escapes her mouth as she grinds down against him again. His hands slide down from her back to cup her ass, hold her steady as she ruts against him, chasing friction and pleasure for the second time. “Angel, Satan’s sake, you’re too much sometimes.”

“And you’re everything,” Aziraphale says, kissing her deeply and roughly, holding her tight as she grinds down on him and gasps into his mouth. Her panties are ruined, drenched by the both of them, the drag of satin over her clit paired with the sturdiness of the angel underneath her has her teetering on edge.

One hand leaves her backside, works it’s way back under her skirt, a feather touch to where she’s rutting into him like her life depends on it. “This won’t do, I feel like I should help you out of these,” Aziraphale says as he runs a finger along the top of her panties.

“Yeah… _yes_ …” She moves to get up, to be able to slide them down her thighs, “let me just—“

Before she can, Aziraphale dips two fingers into the waistband, grips tight and pulls, ripping them off of her and tossing the ruined knickers to the side. She stops moving and stares in shock. 

“Ah, probably should have asked first. Forget my own strength sometimes it seem—“

“Don’t you dare apologize.” She kisses the words off his lips as she fumbles with his bowtie, undoing it and letting it hang loose around his neck, grinding against his thigh. How long has she watched? How many times has she touched herself thinking of these damnable thighs? “Christ, angel, do you have any _fucking_ idea how hot that was?” She asks, working the buttons on his waistcoat free and pushing it off his shoulders.

Her legs are in his tight grip as she grinds down against his thigh, against the coarse fabric covering it. Doesn’t matter, she just needs friction, already well on her way to a second release. Aziraphale works his hand under her skirt a second time, maneuvering it where her cunt meets his thigh. “I shall have to endeavor to destroy more of your clothing then, darling, if that’s the reaction I get.” He slides a finger between them, pressing it to her clit and letting her rock against it. 

“ _Ah-_ Aziraphale!” She shouts as she stills, back arched and legs shaking, a second orgasm rolling over her as she collapses on his chest, nuzzling into the soft cotton of his shirt. His hand is trapped between them, still pressed to the center of her. It’s oddly grounding as his other hand comes up to stroke her spine.

“How are you feeling, Crowley?”

And isn’t that a question? How is she supposed to answer that. She has the beginnings of everything she’s ever wanted; she’s warm and safe in Aziraphale’s arms, sated and happy. He’s planting kisses in her hair like flower seeds, like they’ll blossom into something beautiful and wanted. 

“Wonderful.” The single word is all she manages to breathe out as he traces where her wings connect in the ether. His touch is slow and tantalizing and really, could it have been anything else? Her fussy and clever angel, with his fussy and clever fingers, ghosting over that sensitive place and making her shiver.

She whines low in her throat, leans up to kiss him again. Just a chaste press of lips is all she’s going for, all she really wants right now. A distraction from her working at the buttons of his shirt. But, Crowley finds, one kiss is just not enough, so she steals another. And another. A fourth for good measure. Soon enough their lips are slotting together and Aziraphale’s velvety soft tongue is in her mouth again, his trapped finger tracing slow circles around her clit. She’s forgotten all about the shirt.

“Fuck, angel,” she gasps into his mouth, “I thought that tongue was indecent when you eat, this is a far better use of it’s time.”

“I can think of a few other uses, if you’d be amenable.”

“Anything, angel, anything in the world that you want,” Crowley says, nipping along his neck, wishing there were still lipstick on her lips, wanting to leave a trail of where she’s been.

“If you say so, darling,” Aziraphale says with a bastard gleam in his eyes. He frees his hand from between them, and she whimpers at the loss of it. “Patience, my dear.” His hands slowly slide up her thighs and under her skirt, gripping tight enough to hurt but not to bruise. “Do brace yourself.”

That’s all the warning she’s given before he lifts her, pulling her up and over his body, leaving her on her knees directly over his face. She stays there for a moment, frozen in shock, afraid to bend her legs, to take what is being offered.

But Aziraphale is lying there below her, lipstick smudges all over his face, hair a mess, and staring at her with unbridled devotion as he licks his lips. “That first taste was such a lovely little appetizer, darling, let me taste you for real.” Aziraphale closes his eyes, nuzzles against her thigh, hands soft but firm on her hips. He has no business being endearing in this position, she can’t help but smile at him.

“You should always be able to smile like that, darling,” he says when he looks back up at her, “I can only hope that I can be the reason.”

“You old sap,” Crowley says with infinite fondness, snapping her fingers and miracling a pillow underneath his head, “silver tongued hellion.”

“Takes one to know one,” Aziraphale honest to Someone smirks as he tugs gently on her hips, coaxing her to lower herself, “and I’m not a _hellion_ , I’m _ethereal_ , big difference.”

There’s a witty retort on her lips but it’s lost when he brings his mouth up to meet her, tracing the edges of her labia with his tongue as a shudder runs through her. She grasps for something, anything to hold her steady, and she leans forward as her hands land on the ornate wooden desk in front of her.

The new angle lets Aziraphale in deeper as he lathes over the core of her. She cries out his name, gripping the desk like a lifeline. He squeezes her hips, keeping a slow and tantalizing speed with his tongue. Savoring her like he would a chocolate mousse or a tart tatin, taking his time and enjoying. She can feel the wet heat of her arousal pooling, spreading with every swipe of his tongue, every caress of that precious velvet heat.

Crowley’s legs shake with the effort of keeping some form of distance. Wouldn’t that be something for the discorporation paperwork? “Thoroughly thwarted the demon Crowley’s wiles, but resulted in unexpected asphyxiation.” That would be one for the record books. But Aziraphale’s pull on her is insistent, his tongue prods deeper, circling around her entrance and her clit. Slow and lazy, balancing her on the edge.

That damnable tongue focuses on her clit, punching the air out of her lungs. She arches her back, crying out his name, calling out angel in multiple languages both alive and long dead. He pulls back only slightly and she chances a glance down at him. The sight of him threatens to push her over all on it’s own.

Aziraphale’s gaze is fixed on her, happiness dancing in his eyes like starlight. A laser focus as he continues working her on his tongue, slickness peeking out on the apples of his cheeks. He grips her hips tight, pulls her down as he wraps his lips around her clit and sucks. It’s too much, it’s not enough, it’s everything.

“Aziraphale, angel, I love you!” Crowley screams out as supernovas burst into being behind her eyelids, giving herself over to him, trusting him to stop if it’s too much. She ruts against his tongue as she chases her third orgasm and he moans under her. “I love you, I love you, I love you…” A litany falling from her lips that she’s powerless to stop. Her grip on the desk tightens and it splinters under her fingers.

He brings in a finger to join the proceedings, easily sliding it into her while lathing over her clit again, crooking it just so. The tandem pleasure of it pushing her the rest of the way over the edge. She clenches around that finger as her thighs clench around his head, toes curling and calves shaking.

Aziraphale keeps licking over her slowly, contentedly, as she comes down from her orgasm for the third time tonight, overstimulated and thoroughly wrung out. Strong hands help her clamber down his body. The bowtie still hangs loose around his neck, the wetness of her coating his lips and his chin, spotting on the collar of his shirt. What else is she supposed to do but kiss him senseless? So she does, whispering more I-love-you’s into his mouth, not giving him the chance to answer.

His hands explore the hills and valleys of her sharp figure, her hands busy themselves buried in his hair as they trade languid kisses between each other. Here on the floor of the gardener’s cottage, they lie together, legs entwined and hearts as well. She’s not sure if she summoned the blanket or if he did, as wrung out and sleepy as she is. But she curls into his arms, nuzzles up under his chin, and as she starts to drift to sleep she can hear the echoing chorus whispered in her ear.

“I love you, too, Crowley. I love you. I always have.”

There will be talking tomorrow, surely. Crowley is certain of it now, this thing will be given all of the voice that it deserves. But for now, she’s content to lie here, watched over by an angel, trading wine-soaked kisses as the night ticks on.

And funny thing, that, the wine didn’t sour at all.


End file.
